


Fraternising

by Angels_Grace



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, Gabriel is a dickhead, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Boys, hard times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angels_Grace/pseuds/Angels_Grace
Summary: So Hard Times may be the greatest piece of TV ever made but it made me desperate to see more of these two idiots across the centuries.





	1. Eden

**Author's Note:**

> It's been FIVE damn years since I wrote fanfic then good omens came into my life and I'm a stan again. Sorry if this reeks of 2012 AO3, I'm relearning this world 
> 
> Willing to take requests for events and characters x

Eden  
4000 BCE

Since the fall, all Crawley had known was different accents of pain. The freezing cold of a soul ripped asunder, born into the heart of an irradiating star and plunged down, suffocating and stinking of brimstone. His palate had developed to tell the burn of tooth and claw from the burn of shame and revel in the knowledge. He had no idea how long his occult tortures had lasted, time had not been invented yet. Eventually, even these exquisite pains become monotonous and the great stretch of nothingness burned into his mind. Madness, the cruel mistress, passed him by without even the sweet release of insanity that she granted to so many of his compatriots.

Then She did something unexpected. She made something. When the world was squishy and new, it was easy to push your way into it, have a nose around. At first, it was just a rock colliding with other rocks, one delivering a boon of oxygen, another nitrogen from stars already dying. Together they built up an ozone that sheathed the rock. Time came next. The rock turned and day and night plunged and warred and raged over the horizon. Green things began to claim its surface, eventually relenting to grey seas and shockingly golden sands.

One morning, Crawley had been drifting listlessly around the sensory overload that was this rock becoming a world, and something moved. A green band of muscle and intelligence raised itself up to consider him, as he considered it. As he watched, he realised it was the first being that regarded him as anything other than a beast to be beaten. He forced his formlessness down into the grass, He became a mirror image of this creature with no name, the concept of naming things had nit yet to been necessary. He manifested himself as a clone painted in darker shades, almost totally black in the hot sun. He soon found that slithering was a slow, inconvenient mode of transport but in this form, he had mass. Where he moved, grass stalks bent and swayed. He was corporeal and his anguishes were muted behind all this flesh.

He did not see another beast until he found the garden.

At the gate, he saw a creature that stood miles tall, made of light and an ear-splitting vibration that seemed to register on more senses than Crawley possessed. He stared at the impossible creature through half lidded eyes. It turned to survey the desert, this blinding silhouette raised its wings. Set amongst the feathers, Crawley had the impression of hundreds of eyes. It made him think of his dicorporated form. He realised that this behemoth was an angel, and that must make him a demon. It turns out they don't give you an informational leaflet when you fall, discussing the side-effects and linguistic complexities of tenses and names. Funnily enough, when leaflets came into being, this demon would take credit for them.

Sensing something new, the great principality drew a mighty sword taller than the wall to it's back. The sword was made of flame, it's heat redoubling the might of the sun. Crawley slunk away, following the wall until he understood the shape of it. It was enclosing something that smelt incredibly sweet and delicate. An urge arose in Crawley to see such pleasures burn. When he willed it, a lump of the brickwork crumbled and he eased his serpentine form through the perfectly sized gap that was his first miracle.

The garden ... there were no words to adequately describe that garden, then or now. It was as though Crawley had found his way back to his seat in heaven. He detested it. He hated the creatures who watched him pass without fear, he hated the rhythmic splash of a hidden waterfall that he never did find, he hated the berries and fruits so eternally plump and fresh. Most of all, he hated the two beasts who inhabited this land with their very own angel at the door. Crawley would spend days and nights looped around branches and rocks, occasionally slinking back to hell to report on what he'd seen to the fledgling order that was hell's middle management. What he had seen was this; the mighty angel shrunk himself down to the size of the human creatures he protected. This cloaked angel would don a robe of heavenly white and dispense with his sword. He entered the garden to tell the two within that all they must do to stay, was avoid eating the fruit of a certain tree. Enthralled by the concept of a rule and a desire to see it broken, Crawley forced himself into a human form. He took his first steps, but the motion of his first form never left him, making his human self sway alarmingly as he walked. Dressed in a black robe, he approached the angel whilst it too wore a human skin.

Pure joy radiated from the being at the sight of Crawley. That in itself took Crawley by surprise, but the creature spoke. It introduced itself as The Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Crawley thought it an odd distinction to make when he had slithered around all of Eden not seeing another gate, let alone another angel to guard it. He opened his mouth to say so and realised that speech was so much harder than hissing, which is all he was want to do as a serpent. This Aziraphale, believing Crawley to be 'from head office, as it were', was only too happy to share the entirety of the almighty's message with him. After all, deception was about an hour from its genesis, Aziraphale had nothing to fear.

I'm sure, dear reader, that you are aware of what came next.

After the dirty business with the apples and the fashioning of fig leaves and the birth of darkness into the world, Crawley felt moderately pleased with himself. He felt the need to let someone, anyone, know about it. He was surprised to find himself heading for the eastern gate, rather than Beelzebub's office. He thought the angel might be weeping or ready to smite him for his impertinence, but he was watching over the plain pensively. The resulting conversation went down a road that did not exactly thrill Crawley. He had never much seen Her as a benevolent figure and he learnt a word he came instantly to despise. Ineffable. Sounded like a lovely get out of jail free card, did ineffability. His eyes wandered across the angel as he bored of the conversation, brows contracting suddenly. "Didn't you have a flaming sword?" The demon interrupted. The angel looked ruffled, managing only a brief "erm" before Crawley persisted. "You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?" "Er..."  
"Lost it already have you?" He asked, barely hiding his glee. The angel surprised him by murmuring under his breath "gave it away."  
"You what?" He asked, in awe.  
"I gave it away!" The angel returned, launching into a fretful explanation that was lost on Crawley as his mind worked feverishly.

The angel had given away the sword that was passed down to him by the Almighty Herself. Crawley's gaze flicked out to the human male fighting a lion with said sword. He could feel the sun at his back but the world ahead was full of a charge he didn't recognise. It matched the tumult within him, warring static in his blood and the pit of his stomach. The edges of his torn soul burned. He tensed, ready for the fall that was sure to follow. He wondered where could be worse than hell, where they could expel him to next. It was forbidden for demons to _feel_ , but to feel for an angel, it was unthinkable. There was no pain, no searing heat, only the very first raindrops of the very first storm. He murmured some platitudes and the angel turned his face back out to the sands, watching the two humans survive their first trial. His profile was perfect, bold yet soft. At the moment it was so very pained, as though the love he was built to have for all God's creatures was too much for him to contain. Crawley recognised it as the pain suffusing his own body, kin calling to kin. The angel extended a wing to shelter Crawley from the very first storm and he pressed into his side gladly.


	2. Sodom

Sodom

1896 BCE

A tiny, terrible smile crept upon the vast sea of flesh that was Sandalphon's corporeal face. He was hovering above the market Square, cackling with glee. Wherever he turned his eyes, fleeing bodies crumpled, limbs cascading into coarse white grains that piled around the base of what was once a torso. The pillars of salt blazed with a purity as white as the angel's wings. This was their mercy, in exchange for the absolution of their temptations, their sins, they became the salt of their thirst. To Sandalphon, it was righteous work, it was beautiful.

Aziraphale watched in dumb horror as the pillars of salt increased in number whilst their shrieks still lingered. He had pinned himself against a the brickwork of the town's church, seeking the strength of consecrated ground. His eyes roved over the wrath his heavenly brother was raining down upon the people, knowing that in other alleyways and streets, in homes, other angels would be carrying out their own manner of divine retribution. He himself had been assigned a quadrant of he city to smite in the hope that some none-believers would perish with the rest. but instead, he had run towards the most terrified shrieks, run to the defence of the humans he adored so much. 

Something caught his eye across the square. A man had stopped running. Aziraphale watched a father scoop at the grains that were once his daughter. The holy war raged around him and he knelt, body bowed and his child's ashes trailing through his fingers like the sands of time. Surely, she had been innocent, a child of this world. Aziraphale found himself moving towards the man as if in a dream. His logic followed that if the guilty were really being punished today, then the innocent ought to be protected. It would be a miracle of the sort he had never attempted, to rebuild a child from ash and grief. 

He knelt beside him and stilled the father's hands with his own, hearing his broken sob of 'mercy'. With the touch of hands, he slipped into this man's consciousness. There was pain there, pain as he hasn't known it possible to feel, like the father himself was crumbling to nothing, not his child. Aziraphale pushed further, back to the very moment in this man's memory before the angels had taken to the sky. There she was, her lumiescant brown eyes telling her father she was planning some mischief or other, dark skin perfect, unblemished, wearing a dress of starched white. Another feeling buffeted the angel, so new to human emotion. At this moment, the man had been feeling such an indulgent affection that the angel felt his own corporeal form begin to weep somewhere distantly. They had been content. This man was a market holder here in the square, selling fruits with his daughter perched on a crate beside him. Now he was nothing, a father of none. This hollowness rang within Aziraphale as if it were his own purpose in life lost for naught.

And then Aziraphale prayed.

He begged, he lied, he reasoned. Ultimately, he willed the universe to obey him, to reform this lost child as he had seen her in her father's eyes. It would cost him dearly to find her, this perfect treasure. Like rustling leaves on a tree making way for the wind, he felt the atoms of the universe shiver, making room for a tiny form. The grains of salt surged upwards, animating her as the colour bled back into her crystalline form. "Baba?" A small voice whispered, so afraid, so alone. Aziraphale opened his eyes to see her remade, a gift from God in the middle of this hellzone. The father looked at him in wonder "praise-" he began but the angel shook his head. No-one here deserved his adoration. "There isn't time, run." He urged, using the last once of his divine energy to hide them from sight and speed their passage. He wound prayer around the child, finally loosing sight of her in the crowds. He staggered to his feet, backing away from the square. He was aware of what he had done. By meddling with the plan, he had dissented. Had anyone seen? Would they martial him? It had been worth it, he knew. A full human life was but the flicker of a candle. It was his duty to give the girl that much, at least. A human life for his ethereal soul, it seemed a good a reason to fall as any.

A hand closed on his upper arm with enough strength to actually make the angel feel discomfort n his exhausted state. It dragged him sharply around a corner into an alleyway that was almost total darkness in comparison to the blinding light of the square. "Gabriel I can explain, I..." the angel began, his sentence fading away when the eyes he met glowed gold instead of purple.

"Crawley! He breathed. "what are you doing here? It isn't safe for you, old boy. There are angels everywhere. If they find you here... Well, you've seen what they do to the humans... what do you think they would do to you?" Aziraphale asked, pulling the demon further into the shadows.

"It's not me I'm worried about, angel." Crawley said, no hint of his usual smirk or teasing. He looked disturbed, deeply so. There was no white at all around the gold of his eyes and his pupils were constricted so tightly that they were almost invisible.

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, dropping his gaze from the demon's.

"I saw what you did." he hissed, pushing the angel back against the wall sharply. "This isn't the time to play gamesss." He said, loosing control of his perfect elocution. 

"Oh, you're right! It's a miracle none of the others saw." Aziraphale said, damp eyes raised to the heavens. 

"It was a miracle alright. What the hell are you playing at?" Crawley insisted. Aziraphale's head fell against the demon's shoulder for a moment in gratitude

"She was just a child. I couldn't let her go." he murmured.

"One of these days your bleeding heart is going to get the both of us discorporated, or worse..." Crawley said. The angel thought he could sense some tenderness there, in the demon's tone. 

"Oh Crawley, it's in the plan, all of this but, it just feels so wrong. We're angels. We're built to love, not ... not murder." Aziraphale said hopelessly. From the way Crawley flinched back at that, Aziraphale assumed love must really be an abhorrent thing to a demon. 

"That didn't look like love to me." Crawley said gruffly, finally looking away from the angel and back to the madness in the square.

"You cant question this, do you understand me, angel?" Crawley asked. He looked back to Aziraphale, eyes burning with such certainty into his that he didn't know how to doubt him. "I asked a couple of questions and look at what happened to me. At times like this, doubt is the very worst kind of sin. This is the plan that you harp on about so much." The demon insisted, not letting his friend get a word in. The first thrill of fear he had felt, seeing Aziraphale disobeying God so brazenly, reviving the smote for all to see, was starting to fade. The angel was pale but his eyes still shone, his wings, hanging dejectedly behind him, were still white. He had not fallen and the demon swore he would not let his friend fall, not for this, not for anything like this.

"It's hateful and it's beastly" the angel lamented, glancing around the demon at the havoc on the street.

"Yes. And it's ineffable." He said, using the word that he rarely even allowed himself to hear. His grip on the angel's robes slackened and he leaned back.

"Just have faith, angel. please?"


	3. Alexandria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y'all wanted 6,00 years of angst and slow burn and i'm here to keep you fed

Library of Alexandria

48 BCE

Gluttonous curls of smoke were meeting in great vaulted arches over the city of Alexandria. The air was viscous with it, every bakery and school and home seemed to be burning. There were no screams, Caesar had ensured no one would be left alive to see the city's final fall, it's dark wings stretched heavenward.

An angel stood amongst the ashes, his bearings lost as he watched familiar buildings crumble to ruins. "Oh heaven forbid it." He whined, his feet leading him to the foot of the hill where the town spread out below him. There in the central square was a central column of fire burning an unearthly red. Brimstone was on the air. The library was burning. Inside, the entire store of human knowledge was reducing to ash. His mission had been to protect it at all costs from the invading Roman's. He had failed, again. The Almighty would have his feathers for this. He went to take another step towards the library he had been studying in since he had watched the first bricks laid. Instead of striding towards the fire, he found himself in the dry grass, His legs bound tightly together. He rolled over and looked down. Golden eyes glowed from a reptilian face, a blank band of muscle encircling Aziraphale's legs up to the knee "Crawley release me this instant! I haven't the time for your games." The angel snapped. He pushed out with his mind, trying to pry the snake from himself. He met the immovable force of the demon's will to keep him still and resorted to unwinding the snake by hand and scrambling to his feet again. 

The flames had devoured the majority of the eastern wing. The angel whimpered, the poetry of the last age at least would be lost already. He raised a hand, curling it into a fist in an attempt to compress the flames. They hesitated, shrinking down. He gasped as the heat of two knives simultaneously ripped into his corporeal form's arm. The weight of the snake pulled it down to his side as the serpent's jaw closed around his outstretched arm. His fingers parted and the flame surged up, hungrier than ever. He watched as the snake holding his arm slowly uncurled, forcing itself up into a human body, only the serpentine eyes remaining. The angel's forearm was clasped in both of the demon's hands. Crowley was inspecting the deep punctures he had left in the Aziraphale's arm. "Good job I'm not venomous I suppose." He said, long auburn hair framing his face. Aziraphale snatched his arm back.

"Get out of the way Crawley! Any demonic thing between that flame and I will find itself suddenly discorporated." He warned, fingers twitching slightly. The demon smirked with a reckless abandon and leaned into the angel's outstretched fingers. "Do it then, angel. Rip me apart." His savage glee was undeniable, it was unhinged. The angel looked at him, baffled. "What have you done, Crawley?" Aziraphale demanded. He had been foolish to trust this serpent, twice he had led him to ruin in his holy missions. As pleasant company as he was, he would simply have o go. Aziraphale tried to do it, a single pulse of wrath would be enough to discorporate the beast, to give Aziraphale a century or so while he waited for a new body and licked his wounds. It might even earn the angel some modicum of forgiveness in the wake of his failure. ' _oh yes I did let the place crumble, but you should have seen the_ _other_ _guy.._.' The thought was sweet but then the demon spoke, truth sliding from his lips like honey.  
"It wasn't me angel." He said gently, his face suddenly the very image of remorse,  
"I know Hellfire when I smell it!" The angel snapped, pulling his hand back.  
"Then you know why you can't stop it. It'll burn you from the inside out. You won't just be discorporated. You will cease, you'll be smited ... smote ...smitten? Whatever, you'll be gone. I can't allow that." The demon said.  
"Oh then just let me miracle out a few of the books, just my favourites."   
"Angel..." Crawley said, eyes pained as he watched the angel absorb what was happening. "If they found out..."

"Was this you Crowley? Or one of your minions?" The angel demanded, rounding on the demon with an unexpected ferocity in his eyes. The demon relived a hazy memory, a pillar of light that stretched up for miles, wings with hundreds of eyes embedded within the feathers, a flaming sword. The angel's hand twitched again, as though he regretted ever having parted from the sword. He saw a wrath in Aziraphale that he had never believed to exist. He had always thought him so different from Gabriel and Michael and Sandalphon, but here it was, the family resemblance that made the demon hesitate. Had he ever looked so righteous, he wondered.  
"You really think I did this?" He asked, pointing to the plume of smoke despairingly "You think I ever would?" He demanded.  
"You're a demon, Crawley! Of course you would. Your purpose is to make good things burn." The angel snapped. Crawley recoiled as though scalded by the angel's coldness. "I see, angel. My purpose is to destroy all the jewels of humanity." He said, "But ask yourself this, who was it who gave them knowledge in the first place and who was on apple tree duty?" He asked contemptuously. Aziraphale winced at the reminder of his failure, glancing between the demon and the library.

"If it wasn't you, who did this?" Aziraphale asked, wretched.  
"You and I both know who has a taste for smiting with Hellfire." Crawley said, remembering what had happened in Gomorrah while the two of them had met in Sodom.  
"Gabriel? He would never, he knows I'm posted there, he gave me the assignment!" The angel protested. The demon raised his eyebrows incredulously  
"For someone so clever you are bloody dumb." He growled.

"Can it be saved?" Aziraphale asked brokenly.  
"They sent me to try, but it's out of control. Not even demons can tame Hellfire, not even Satan himself." He said, eyes full of sorrow.  
"Why do you care Crawley?" The angel asked, defeated. Crawley sank to the parched grass of the hillside, waiting for the angel to copy him before he began. "It's silly really but, all that knowledge, humans would never have gotten it if I hadn't poked about that apple tree. Call it a legacy." He said, staring into the flames.   
"What really pains me is the time it will take to regain it all, centuries." Aziraphale said. The demon nodded.  
"That was the point. Ezekiel wants the sciences delayed as long as possible. People won't be committing sins so frequently in the name of discovery if they need to go back to square one. The theory is that all of this will have people flocking to the church for guidance instead."  
"Ezekiel is in on it?" The angel asked, aghast. the demon nodded again. They were silent for a while, watching the flames lap at the edge of the sky. 

"I may have intervened just a little." The demon said, pulling a scroll from the sleeve of his gown and holding it out to the angel without dropping his gaze from the flames. The angel looked at him as if he had doused the flames entirely. Aziraphale snatched the parchment from him eagerly.   
"A record of an astronomer's works? Why not save the works themselves?" He asked.  
"The easiest thing about being a demon is that humans will always run into trouble on their own two feet, you only need to point them in the right direction. That's just to get them looking up again." The demon said. "Keep it safe for me, will you?" he asked.  
"Of course. Maybe I should start a little library of my own." He smiled sadly.  
"That might be a little too on the nose for Heaven to ignore at the moment, angel." He said.  
"A bookshop then." Aziraphale compromised.  
"I like the sound of that." Crawley said. He glanced sideways at the angel, seeing him absorbed in the few words scratched into the parchment. He ached at the sight, still feeling the ghost of five fingers splayed with miraculous intent against his chest. 


	4. Gangouji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God I hate Gabriel

Gangouji, Japan

606 CE

He liked the clothes, the focus that went into learning such useless skills as embroidery. The fascination with useless things was one of the only things that endeared humanity to Gabriel. The montsuki he wore was a soft charcoal grey, rather than the traditional black. It was inlaid with patterns of dragon scales around the cuffs and hems in a thread of exactly the same hue, set off nicely by the white under kimono that showed through. He especially liked the clothing of this region, the precise putting on of which kept it in place. He respected respect for tradition and order.

The festival was underway. Gabriel hadn't bothered to check what it was the festival for, he wasn't one for sight seeing on earth. He had a job to do. The temple was festooned with ribbons, and intricate paper decorations were hung between every pillar and post. Children weaved around it all, unheeded in pastel kimonos, laughing as chubby fists picked at chubby dumplings. He wrinkled his nose as a human child bit into a dumpling and a puff of steam erupted, perfuming the air with the scent of vegetables.

Gabriel had assumed his target would be easy to find, a shadow in the party's glow. However the angel found himself moving against a flow of hundreds of black robes, the people subconsciously parting to let him pass. Somewhere near by, bells rang out into the purpling evening sky. A flash of red caught his eye across an ornamental garden and he moved towards it. The demon was sitting alone at a tatami mat and low table set for two, as though he were expecting company. The plates of Gabriel's side were pristine and unused, his counterparts were covered in the remnants of food. Gabriel slid onto the mat opposite the demon with as much dignity as he could manage, glad the demons eyes were closed dreamily. Its head was tilted and it's shockingly fiery hair was piled atop of it in a knot, a bottle of sake hanging from long fingers. Its robe was inlaid with red thread and tied with a bright red sash. Where the family sigil should be, above the heart, there was nothing.

"To what do I owe the pressure Gabe?" The demon asked, popping the 'b' drunkenly.

"Enjoying ourselves, are we?' the angel wrinkled his nose as the demon took a long swig and swayed slightly. It finally opened the gold eyes that unnerved Gabriel so much. Gabriel must have given his distaste away because the demon smirked at whatever expression it found on his face.

"Just the opposite in fact, nursing my wounds." He said softly, considering the almost empty bottle.

"My heart goes out to you, really it does but i'm here on business, Crawley." Gabriel said, feeling nothing but contempt.

"Crowley." He corrected

"What?" Gabriel sighed, picking up the full cup before him.

"That's not for drinking." The demon said, before adding. "My name, it's Crowley these days."

"I remember when it was something else." Gabriel said, delicately replacing the tea on the table. He glanced around, seeing people carrying their little cups and bowls into the temple. Crowley was draining the bottle at the last comment, numbing the memories that rose in him. Gabriel was remembering too, he was smiling from ear to ear.

"What are you doing here?" Gabriel asked.

"Fulfilling a debt." Crowley said.

"To the Buddhists?" Gabriel asked skeptically.

"Making people search for enlightenment? Buddhism is one of ours." the demon said. Gabriel couldn't deny that the philosophy had been causing heaven some trouble as it ignited throughout Asia. "Well, I hope they'll enjoy the consequences of their enlightenment." He scoffed. The demon regarded him for a long moment. "That's the problem with you angels, so fucking cold that it burns." The demon said eventually.

"You've had words with an angel here tonight?" Gabriel surmised, eyes narrowing.

"No..." Crowley said, sitting up straighter and rearranging his robe.

"The table is set for two, Crowley. I doubt you treat your human ... conquests so well." Gabriel said.

"I've heard angels don't much go in for that sort of thing, something about sullying a celestial ... something or other." the demon smirked, leaning over the table into Gabriel's space. The angel rolled his eyes. "There are better ways for angels to spend their time together." He said curtly. "But that's why i'm here." He said.

"To sully your celestial whatsit?" The demon smirked.

"Sit down and stop embarrassing yourself. Whichever angel it is you've had here tonight needs to be exposed."

"They didn't seem all that into the concept of exposure, to be honest." the demon said bitterly.

"Heaven knows it has a leak. Soon enough i'll have an angel tailing you 24/7 so I will find out who it is. You might as well tell me now."

"More than my job's worth." The demon shrugged, rocking back to his own side of the table.

"Depends on how you spin it." The angel suggested. He glanced down at his fingers that were drumming a beat on the tabletop and tried his best to look conspiratorial.

The demon surveyed him for a long moment "how do you mean?" It asked at last.

"Well, making an angel fall, that must be like a badge of honour for your type." Gabriel said, trying to find some lingering sense of the departed angel. The only scent was the demon's.

The demon itself stiffened at his words, its whole long body taut as a lightning bolt. Crowley didn't look nearly so drunk anymore. It was enraged, Gabriel realised distantly. "I think you better leave before I start telling people you came to see me, begging for help ... Looking so awfully tempted." The demon said through gritted teeth. Gabriel had to laugh."Tempted, beast? I think not."

"Oh I know I'm not your type, Gabe. But you forget, I'm good at rumours. Good at unearthing them, bringing them above ground." He said in a much softer tone that caught the arch angel's interest. He felt an unease twist within him. He didn't question how the demon found out. He only needed to shut him up.

"You think you can threaten me?" He demanded. "I'm the archangel fucking Gabriel."

"When you play in the mud you get dirty ... I've heard you play there often, dragging your muddy footprints across the gleaming floors. I wonder how Michael hasn't noticed already ..." Crowley hissed, grip tightening on the bottle.

Gabriel's eyes were so deep they were almost black "I will smite you before you breathe another word. Tell me who was here."

"Beelzebub." The demon said, a smile curling the corner of his lips. Insolence was never something Gabriel bore well. If the demon hadn't already fallen he would find his wings rotting as he plummeted.

"Whoever you're protecting, I won't just kick him out of the pearly gates, I'll burn him in front of you." Gabriel promised.

"Don't try me, an-" the demon cut itself short, eyes closing as though he had almost exposed himself and thought better of it.

"Angel? You think that's a slur? I wear that with pride." Gabriel said, tapping the iron wings on his chest where a family sigil would normally be. "That's why I go back every time."

"Angel is not an insult ... It's an honour, the highest in fact. It's not an honour you deserve." Crowley said fiercely, meeting the angel's eyes with perfect clarity. The demon drained his cup and left it upturned in the centre of his place setting. He rose to his feet, fluid as water. "If I were you, I'd forget about your leak, or Hell might soon have one as well. I don't think it would work out well for either of you." He spat.

"Your angel ... does he know?" Gabriel asked, heat prickling as he experienced his vessel's first blush.

"No. I decided not to burden them with it all these years and I don't see the point of changing that now. Wouldn't want to put such ... repulsive ideas in his head." A long look of understanding passed between them. Gabriel looked away first, giving one stiff nod. Crowley nodded too and made for the trees, melting away into the darkening night. He didn't turn back, but Gabriel saw a subtle tremor in him as he went.


	5. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ship rolled into London. On the ship was a crate. In the crate was a rat. On the rat was a flea. On the flea was a colony of the black death. It had come to ruin the 14th century.

London

1347 CE

The 14th fucking century. What a shit hole.

Crowley moved through the London night like the reaper. His footsteps were sure and silent on the slick cobblestones. He didn't need to worry about wayward candle flames illuminating him in the middle of the road, no one had had the strength to light a candle in this slum for weeks. 

The plague had come for London and it had torn her apart. His favourite haunts had suffered the worst if it, the docks and markets, the interesting little ravers tucked away underground. London was holding its murky breath. The immovable city was hesitating. He let his senses reach out, slipping beneath boarded windows and doorways. They recoiled sharply at the scene inside each of the hovels. Bodies piled together, corpses gripping at one another like they were gripping at life itself. It want the rot that made him cringe away, not even the pestilence. It was the hope they'd died in, that they would wake in a lover's arms renewed. All these lives, wasted in faith.

There was movent on the next street. With a blink, Crowley was hooded and masked in the long break of a plague doctor. He turned into the next row where the homes were barely more than sticks stitched together with good intentions. The plague did not spare the rich or the humble, the righteous or the sinners, it simply took. This wound wasn't just festering in Crowley's city, it was everywhere, tearing the world to shreds. He couldn't imagine what humans could have done to so upset the Almighty. At this rate there would be no-one left to praise Her by the time the Almighty Tantrum fizzled out. Rumour had it that death himself couldn't keep up with the demand his brother pestilence provided him. There were whisperings that heaven and hell were going into business, opening up a no man's land to deal with the backlog. Maybe that's where all the noise of London had fled to, that space between worlds. The London above was preternaturally silent. Crowley sighed _still as the grave_.

In the very last hut there came that movement again, the barest cringe of a little body. He slipped through a crack in the quarantine of the little building, finding himself in a humble one-room hut. There was a body in the corner, long since departed. What was left of her aura was suffused with sin, but a light pulsed beside her, oh so faintly. Crowley knelt beside her, seeing a boy of no more than two pressing meekly into her side. From the looks of it he had been on his own here for at least a day, maybe two. His light was so faint, only a whisper from purgatory. Every now and then, when the moon shone just right and no one was watching, Crowley did something very stupid. He let himself do _good_. Not just avoiding evil or being the patron of chaotic neutral, but holier-than-thou, holier-than-god good. As he looked at the dying child, he felt the urge rising in him, like a tide of light that had to be siphoned away. Crowley remembered Aziraphale sculpting a girl from a pile of salt, a girl as innocent as this boy. He longed to heal him. Healing had not been in his repertoire for a long time, but he could remember the mechanics of it.

He gently picked up the boy, so much heavier than he looked, even in this ravaged state. He leaned him against his chest as he inspected him. The warmth seemed to redouble the little thing's aura. The idiomatic black welts of the plague had already made a canvas of his skin. The parasite had gnawed away most of what was still living within him. But whatever Aziraphale could manage with cold salt and a memory, Crowley hoped he could do with living flesh and bone. Why shouldn't Crowley be able to save him, just this one, broken boy? Surely in Her infinite kindness, She could grant him one good deed. 

He rested his hand over the boys head, tracing his way through every capillary with all the heat of hell. He was sure Aziraphale healed with love, but hatred of the disease, of the wrath and the plan was all Crowley had. He burnt away each microbe in blood or lung or skin which he encountered, etching demonic vengence upon the blight that took his plaything, his distraction, his London from him.

He hadn't heard the rustling of wings behind him."That's enough Crowley, you'll kill him." Came a gentle voice close at hand. Crowley's head shot up, eyeing Aziraphale through the deep-set eyes of his mask. He reached up and slipped the long-beaked covering from his face. "How did you know it would be me?" He asked, letting the fire passing through the boy recede. The little boy's breath deepened and a healthy blush suffused his pallid cheeks.

"Which other demon would give themselves the plague so willingly?" He asked. Crowley looked at the hand on the child's head, it was marked with the pestilence. "Ah ... That's not good." He said. "Still, this body had a good old run." He said, observing the black marks with interest.

Aziraphale stepped closer and took the child, expertly tucking him against his hip. He hadn't spared a glance at the body in the corner. The cold pragmatism of an angel. Aziraphale held his free hand out to Crowley. The demon hesitated before he touched their fingertips together, as though he would infect the angel. A coldness numbed his hand and he watched in quiet fascination as the life cycle of the plague played out upon his skin. In a matter of seconds, his hand was renewed. He couldn't help but wonder if that was what Aziraphale's love could do to the rest of his festering soul. He clamped down on the thought and snatched his hand back.

"Did I just save the Anti-Christ?" Aziraphale asked abruptly.

"What?" The demon spluttered, looking to the peacefully sleeping child.

"I can't see any other reason a demon would be skulking about in the plague pits, reviving children. Not when he's made his opinion on the matter very clear in the past." Aziraphale said.

"He's not the Anti-Christ." Crowley said. 

"Then who is he? Who will he be?" Aziraphale persisted. "Did I save a future dictator? A rebel? an inventor of some terrible machine?" He asked fretfully.

"I've no idea. He just needed help." Crowley said, not wanting the angel to think he'd gone soft. The angel stared at him suspiciously, mind obviously working to find some proof he'd been fooled, used. It was good that the angel thought so little of him, Crowley reminded himself. He pulled his mask back on. "Besides, the arrangement ... i'd tell you if the Anti-Christ popped up. We've still got centuries and it's not like you'd smite him if he was." The demon scoffed, pausing at the look of uncertainty in Aziraphale's eyes. _He wouldn't, would he?_

"Look, the official line is the damned get dispatched a little faster thanks to yours truly. There's no point in offing the good ones before they have the chance to sin though." He shrugged.

"And head office set you the task of saving the innocents?" Aziraphale asked skeptically.

"Well not in so many words but they'll thank me in the long run." He said.

"Let's not forget whose side cooked this up, angel." The demon said before Aziraphale could press him any further.

"I know, I wish we could help them but ... I think I'm being watched." Aziraphale murmured. The demon's senses pricked. 

"Then you best not be seen dropping a child at an orphanage." He said, opening his arms for the child. He copied the way Aziraphale had held him and he seemed content enough. When he glanced back up he caught a tender look being rapidly suppressed in the angel's eyes.

"There's only one way to stop it before it gets out of control you know." He said quickly, the hut feeling like it was shrinking in around him.

"What's that then?" The angel asked.

"Burn the city down and start again. The sick and the well, the saints and the sinners, set the whole fucking city alight." He snarled.

"Crowley you wouldn't! The casualties would be astronomical, half the city is made of wood." He gasped, horror in his eyes. Crowley smiled under his mask, seeing the angel's estimation of him fall as he once again reminded him he was a demon.

"If I do it anyway, it must be in the plan." He teased."Sacrificing the city to save the country, sounds biblical if you ask me."

"Well I don't ask you. Faith alone will end this plague. It is written." Aziraphale huffed.

"I wouldn't take Michael's word as law, angel." He sighed. 

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a moment and Crowley took his chance to rise to his feet. "I'd give it a minute before you leave if they're tailing you. I'll hold off on calling in any favours. A couple of hundred years apart should throw them off the scent." He watched the angel start. "A couple of hundred years? My dear fellow, I don't see any reason to be so rash." He said, looking positively alarmed at the thought. Crowley smiled beneath his mask. It was no secret there was a warm regard between the two of them, even when Crowley was at his most destructive. But these days, even a taste of the angel was beginning to be too much for Crowley to resist. He was supposed to be the one doing the tempting after all. "See you around, angel." He answered noncommittally. 

He wrapped the child in his cloak and ducked out onto the street. He was going to have to hop into a church to leave the baby somewhere safe. It was idiocy for him to take it, made a spectacle of him. He couldn't bear the thought of the angel in trouble though. A weight fell on the beak of his mask, tilting his head down. He glanced at the skinny little hand laid on the brass and sighed. The sentimentalist in him whispered that this child was a proof of their connection, a common thread in the tapestries of their lives. "Oh very well then." It wasn't the first stray he had collected over the years, but he knew it would hurt just as badly at the close. He and the child slipped into the fog of the Thames, leaving an in angel in turmoil in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've written a few scenes ahead and when we get to the 80s ... i'm so sorry, the angst is real


	6. The West End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look I know it's one hell of a time jump but hush

The West End  
1941

Standing in the ruins of that holy place, with a cross upturned at his feet, he should have wept. He should have beaten and smote the demon. He had dared destroy a beautiful manifestation of the love of God, a church that aziraphale had particularly loved.

But a pile of books he had delicately collected and curated, protected for millennia were clutched safe to his chest in a Nazi's bag while the Nazi himself had found a tomb a few feet away. Aziraphale belatedly supposed that murdering three people, even evil ones, should have added to the justification for smiting his hereditary enemy.

But then there were the books again. They were first editions, printed on velum, edges irregular and worn with centuries of careful thumbing and cross referencing. Aziraphale's heart ached as he pressed them to his chest, feeling their weight, hearing all the truths they had ever tried to whisper to him in the half light. A bomb had been falling on them. It was all Aziraphale could do to build a little bubble of safety in the storm and hold the demon within it. And yet Crowley turned his eyes to the consecrated ground that ate away at his soles, spending what little occult energy had left in him on a pile of paper, just to make Aziraphale happy, just to give him that indulgent smile and saunter away. A font of holy water had exploded a few feet away, so close that Aziraphale had felt it rain down upon him, yet the demon had not so much as flinched in his determination to save the books.

Belatedly, Aziraphale realised that Crowley had asked him something. He blinked and looked at the demon, standing among the brickwork. His throat sealed and his eyes shone. 6,000 years of these small kindnesses, actions that most angels in heaven were incapable of conceiving. 6,000 years of warning himself against feeling too deeply, against indulging in his imagination, against believing. He was an angel of the lord, built to love all things truly and deeply. He could sense it in others too, love. Crowley had always radiated the sense of it, almost a scent lingering on beyond the brimstone in his wake. It lingered in every too long glance that perched above those dark glasses. When their hands met or shoulders touched, it sparked like metal on flint. It was overt, it was indecent. Aziraphale had trained himself not to analyse these moments, what conclusions could he have drawn? That the demon was trying to tempt him would have been a first assumption, but these kindnesses were subtle, intended to be invisible and Aziraphale doubted that even Crowley had the patience for a temptation 6,000 years in the making.

Aziraphale had ignored that love all these years, praying that it was the mischief in his wake that the demon so loudly adored, praying not to be tempted. But he was beyond temptation now, he was already lost. A pain burned in him so severely he wondered if he was falling, that She had already felt his iniquity, his moment of weakness and had cast him out before he had even really tasted the idea that he was in love with his demon.

"Lift home?" Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale's internal spiral. His eyebrows were raised between his dark glasses and the room of his hat. Evidently he had been waiting for an answer for some time.   
"Just coming now." Aziraphale replied, picking his way through the rubble. He cradled the bag in the crook of his arm like a newborn. Aziraphale passed the demon with eyes down cast, not trusting himself to look. He stared at his books as the Bentley purred through the abandoned streets of London. Crowley seemed content to let the air raid sirens and whistling engines accompany them tonight. The angel didn't say a word as the car crept over 100 miles an hour in the blackout. He felt that the demon's eyes were on him more than the road, felt the concern emanating from the demon only a gear stick away. How easy it would be to lean across, to touch. His knuckles whitened on the dark leather of the bag in his lap. He did not exhale until he was standing beside the Bentley's slick door, perched on the curb beside the bookshop. "Thank you Crowley." He said quietly. 

"For the books or the rescue?" the demon asked. The angel gave him a knowing look and Crowley nodded. "Well, I remember how upset you got last time you lost some books. Couldn't have your wrath tearing down the city." He said, a wave of indulgence rolling off him that made the angel's head spin.   
"Ah well. yes." He said lamely, fiddling with the clasp of the bag. The silence stretched between them.

"I like it." Aziraphale blurted "The Anthony J business, but i'm sure you'll understand, it's Crowley i've known you as all these years. I hope you won't be offended but ... it takes me rather a long time to adapt." He said, layering his tone with meaning, The demon frowned. "Right, yeah. Well, mostly so I could get in the phone book." He shrugged, though his posture softened as he leaned against his door. He slipped behind the wheel and hesitated before rolling down the window. "Take care angel." He said softly. Aziraphale straightened up and watched the car melt away into the night. He was soon seated alone in his book shop, fingers tracing the prophesies once more, trying to find guidance his holy mother could not provide.


	7. Camden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *your Spotify playlist dissolves into static and my voice plays across the internet*
> 
> This is the big one

Camden

1984

Watching out for Aziraphale had become Crowley's full time job. Of course there were still temptations here and there, minor miracles that nudged men along the path to Hell, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. It was too easy, mini skirts and the sexual revolution arrived and suddenly no one wanted to go to heaven it seemed. Idiots. It suited Crowley to take credit for their lust while spending his time following his angel. This evening he had tailed Aziraphale as far as Camden, but the trail had gone cold.

Aziraphale seemed determined to get himself inconveniently discorporated, or to fall just for the sake of some particularly coveted sushi. It wouldn't surprise the demon if the angel, at this moment, was cooking up hellfire out of academic curiosity. Crowley lived on edge, waiting for the faintest sign that the angel had wound up in a prison or at gun point. He didn't need to sleep often, but when he did, nightmares racked him, all of which ended up with the angel gone and Crowley left on this rotten world alone. But the angel had given him the chance to follow him on, in a tartan flask of all things. He had spent twenty years pondering the slight inflection of the angel's words. "You go too fast for me Crowley." 

He pushed it aside as he always did, instead feeling a prickle at the very edges of his consciousness, a tickle in his throat. The angel was nearby. The market had long since closed for the day, and the electric ballroom was pouring sound and light onto the night well past it's usual closing time. Crowley hesitated in the doorway, seeing signs for a fundraiser plastered across the doors. "Pits and perverts?" He asked a young man on the door. He was met with a rousing call of "Gays support the miners!" and "Fuck Thatcher." He smirked, that was always a position he could support. The smell of the angel lingered in the doorway, making his decision for him. He slipped a fiver into a collection bucket and stepped into the club. He could taste the electricity and pheromones on the air. This was very much his scene and very much the opposite of the angel's, judging by the state of undress and the young men draped over each other. Though considering that business with the gentleman's club in Portland Place, Crowley couldn't be too surprised.

Crowley entered the main ballroom and found himself a spot to rest against the banister of the mezzanine, scanning the crowd idly. The speeches and the bands had long since ended and they were onto the records now. He resisted the urge to miracle the full box of vinyl all into Queen as a Bananarama track started up. He didn't react to the press of bodies around him, dispensing a few interested glances with a subtle miracle. Another one had a perfectly aged whisky in his hand. It was double the vintage of anything in these cellars. 

Crowley caught a glance of something white that made him pause, his drink deposited beside him. It could have been any number of things, Crowley knew. The t-shirts they were selling here were white, the badges and buckets peppering the room were white, there were drag queens robed in wedding dresses. Compared to the heavenly white Crowley had just seen, they were all greys and yellows.

It didn't take long for Crowley's eyes to find him again, his hair as bright as a morning cloud. He was down among the throng, trying valiantly to make aspects of the gavotte correspond to the dancing going on all around him. Crowley watched, enchanted by the innocence of it. Eventually it seemed that Aziraphale had just about gotten the hang of swaying. He looked ridiculous, dressed as he was. His usual blue shirt with a fundraising t-shirt pulled over the top. Quite a few people on the floor were sporting such a look, probably so they could pull them off and get home unmolested, Crowley assumed. He was content to watch the angel from afar as he so often did. This was an especially endearing escapade that he could tease him about one day.

It was about this moment Crowley realised that Aziraphale wasn't alone. Two young men emerged from the crowd and Aziraphale greeted them heartily, accepting a glass from one. The first was the very antithesis of Crowley. He was powerfully built, dark skinned and he had a face so kind it put Aziraphale to shame. The second however, was like looking in a mirror. He was skinny, lanky and tall, pale as the moon with a shock of ginger hair. It was only the styling that differed. This human wore its hair close cropped where Crowley had leaned heavily into the rising tide of punk. His red hair was shaved at the sides, the remaining strip stuck up in sharp spikes. His leather jacket was ribbed with chains and studs and his black jeans showed off more leg than they concealed. Aziraphale had yet to see his new look, but the demon knew the angel would hate it enough to get a good rise out of him. 

Crowley was leaning over the banister, steeped in confusion. What was the angel up to in a place like this, with mortals like that? It was no secret that Aziraphale was as gay as the day was long, but he didn't go in for flings with mortals, at least not since he had been a particular muse of Michaelangelo. Crowley's confusion filtered to rage as his clone wound an arm around the angel that was not instantly batted away. He watched incredulously as Aziraphale relaxed into he hold. It was like watching one of his purer fantasies through a fairground mirror. The first man leaned in and whispered something by the angel's ear. Over the music and stomping of heeled feet, Crowley couldn't quite make it out, but he saw the angel's answering blush. Crowley's hands tightened on the banister as he saw the angel laugh at something the human Crowley said, laying his had on its chest. Every touch they had shared in almost 6,000 years raced through Crowley's electrified mind, admittedly he had tried to minimise them lately. Gone were the centuries he could wrestle Aziraphale to the ground or pin him to a wall without the memory torturing him. Even slight brushes of the hand were enough to weaken his defense now. He was getting old. 

He imagined what it would feel like to see Aziraphale look up at him like that, with wanting eyes set over a flushed cheek and parted lips. He would do anything for that face, he realised, follow any order. In his fantasies, it was the demon issuing orders between the two of them. Crowley had never considered Aziraphale might be the one giving the instructions. His stomach lurched happily at the prospect. 

On the dance floor, Crowley saw the other man take his angel's hand. Crowley's fist tightened on the banister until the wood splintered in his grip. He looked distastefully down at his bloody hand. With focus, each shard of wood withdrew itself from his skin and swiveled to point directly at the children trying to seduce his Aziraphale. He imagined the joy of driving the wood through their eyes and internal organs, of scoping up the angel and flying him back to his flat. But at the sight of the clone pressing closer to the angel, Crowley's fury set the shards alight, leaving a faint trail of cinders along the mezzanine. He found himself moving down to the dance floor before he had even decided to intervene. 

As he approached he could hear Aziraphale singing, he was tipsy but not really all that drunk. He should have guessed the angel would like ABBA. Crowley watched as his shadow tried to slyly skate a hand down Aziraphale's back. Crowley's jaw tightened at the impertinence. He kept the arm locked in place at a respectable height with a little demonic force of will. The boy frowned at the pressure on his arm but Aziraphale was spared any indignity at least. As Crowley approached, he let himself glance at the angel's backside. Of course it was as perfect and soft and utterly gradable as the rest of him. Could he really blame the human for trying? Instead, the clone practically draped himself over Aziraphale. 

"Oh you are awfully sweet." The angel sighed, looking up at the two men doubtfully. "But I think you had better go and find someone else to dance with." 

"And whys that?" The ginger one asked.

"You look rather like someone I know ..." The angel admitted uncomfortably.

"Oh you're a rebound max." The taller man laughed. 

"Is that right? I bet I can make you forget about him." This Max whispered. For a short second there was a temptation in the Angel's aura but it was swiftly stomped out. 

"No, you aren't him..." He sighed, defeated. Max was growing impatient as Aziraphale flaked on him. "Listen, sweetheart-" the human started, frustration in tone. The angel cringed at the tone, leaning away from him. He was an angel, he could have turned Max to a pile of locusts, but here he was, cowering His demonically locked arm sprang free as Aziraphale tried to pull away from him. The angel stumbled backwards and into the demon's waiting arms. 

There it was, the familiar burn of the ethereal meeting the occult, the static of it. He forgot how much he longed for it.

"In need of a rescue, angel?" He purred in Aziraphale's ear, unable to resist making that perfect blush creep up his neck. Their eyes met, lingering for just a moment too long. The world seemed so far away, like they had built a private universe with a capacity of two. Someone cleared their throat and Crowley remembered he was in a club. He frowned over at this Max who has been taking so many liberties "can I help you mate?" He asked.

"No, I don't think you can." Crowley said, nonplussed. His arms tightened around the angel's soft middle, daring the boy to challenge him. There were few things more dangerous than a territorial demon, after all.

"Shit Max, it's the ex." The other boy hissed. Crowley turned his eyes on him, planting an image in his subconscious of burning eyes and black scales tightening around a throat. Looking pale, he said "whatever I'm not getting involved in this." and fled, he would be having nightmares for weeks.

"Smart boy. I see why you liked him." Crowley teased. barely keeping his jealousy in check.

"Really Crowley..." Aziraphale tutted but Crowley felt a shiver pass through him. The demon turned to look back at Max who was more studying him keenly, seeing the similarities, hedging his bets. Crowley knew how hard it was to walk away from an angel, and he was only human. All the same, he was imagining a great many ways to smite the little shit until he too reluctantly slunk away into the crowd. 

To Crowley's surprise, the angel did not instantly pull away from him. He relaxed in his hold for just a moment. The world turned and the ballroom thrummed, but the angel was his, just for a moment. Too soon, he pulled free. Crowley's desire to answer the angel's slightest whim won out over the hunger of keeping him close. He opened his arms to let the angel pass easily, but Aziraphale surprised him again. He laced their fingers together and towed the demon across the dance floor to a shady corner.

The angel backed himself into the corner and released Crowley's hand, shying away under his gaze. Crowley made the most of his height and leaned over the angel, caging him in his corner. "Care to tell me what the fuck all of that was about?" he asked conversationally.

"What I ... get up to is hardly any of your business, Crowley." The angel said shortly, clearly embarassed. 

"I'm all too aware of that, angel. But you told me that after the Italians you were going to pack it all in. Though I did hear rumours about a certain gentleman's club in Portland Place after we had our little falling out ..." At Aziraphale's blush, the demons jealousy spiked. He looked away. The angel spoke quickly, clearly mistaking the pain for disgust. 

"I'm a being of love Crowley. Sometimes that needs an outlet. But your right. These humans, they flash in and out of existence too quickly to enjoy. Pale imitations." He sighed, looking weary. Crowley thought of the human's he had lost, felt the distant sting of it. Time had taken some, others disease and decay, most Crowley had willingly thrown aside when Aziraphale's had called on him. He relented slightly, releasing the cage of his arms and simply standing before the angel.

"Imitations of what?" he asked.

"You have eyes, you know precisely what, or who " the angel swallowed. He began fidgeting with a hem to avoid the demon's gaze. Robotically, crowley took off his glasses and put them in his pocket. He didn't care if anyone else saw, he needed to have no barriers from the angel, not if he wanted to get this right. If it all fell apart now it would be so much worse for him, but he didn't care.

"But angel, why won't you just ... ask me?" He whispered. His voice was laced in confusion and childlike pain. Aziraphale finally met his eyes. His were wracked with indecision.

"You remember what I said to you that night, in the Bentley?" He asked. There had been countless nights in the Bentley, but Crowley found the memory instantly. "I go too fast for you." He muttered spitefully. He knew what it meant. Too fast, too wild, too fallen. Aziraphale would never have him, even if the want had gotten too loud for either of them to ignore.

The angel hesitated. "You've always been so free, so loud with your feelings, Crowley. You've had nothing to lose. They can't expel you from hell. You've had a long time to understand what you feel, to label it." The angel explained.

"Six thousand years, Aziraphale." He whispered. The angel closed his eyes as he processed the enormity of their acquaintance. 

"That's why I came here, I thought seeing people so proudly defying their 'natural order' might inspire me to do the same. Do you understand me Crowley?" He asked.

"I'm going to make you spell it out for me, angel." he said softly. The angel let out an embarrassed whine.

"I only let myself believe in that church, only 40 years, that's nothing to us. Imagine feeling all six thousand years crammed down into 40." he appealed. "I'm working though all of the doubts, unlearning every rule Heaven ever set, and i've only been doing it for 40 years." It sounded idylic to the demon, how calm Aziraphale's feelings must have been before that night, millennia of clear conscience. He couldn't imagine it.

"Do you want me to apologise, Aziraphale?" he asked.

"No ... I want you to wait fot me. Just a little longer. Give me a few more decades. I need to be sure before I can commit, that is before I can give myself..." He floundered. "Being out there, among the humans, it only made it clearer what we could have..." He trailed off, staring up at the demon. Crowley wondered if the same kind of images were paying through the angel's mind. His throat contracted and the familiar swell of sadness consumed him. The angel was offering to give him everything he had ever wanted, everything he could never take.

"Angel ... You know you couldn't have me ... Not in that way. Every other way a thousand times but ... You'd fall. I can't allow that." Denying his angel that kind of closeness seemed cruel. As he had said, all that love needed an outlet, he couldn't force the angel to go without. The thought of sharing him was apalling. It was better than seeing him with black wings. Crowley wouldn't infect his angel, he vowed.

"That's what you're worried about? You wouldn't make me fall." The angel said, brows furrowed in confusion. "Lust is a sin, but the other thing, that's what I'm made for Crowley. Besides, we both know I've been tempted in the past, had ..."

"Dalliances." The demon suggested.

"Lustful dalliances with humans and here I am, still an angel." he said gently. He laid a light hand on Crowley's jaw. The demon stopped breathing. He didn't need to but it meant he lost the angel's familiar scent. Old pages and caramel. He leaned into his touch instead. "Just give me time and I will give you everything." The angel promised, staring into the demon's eyes. Crowley inhaled again. "I'll be waiting on the slow path for you. Just promise me you'll tell me the moment you're ready. I've waited centuries for you, angel. I won't wait an instant longer than I have to." The demon said. The angel's expression broke into one of inexplicable gratitude and warmth. He leaned into the demon, pressing their bodies closer together at the edge of the dark ballroom. For all the world they were two more lovers whispering on the peripheries.

"Oh my Crowley. How much pain I've caused you ..." The angel breathed. "I promise, my dear." Aziraphale vowed. 

Crowley had intended to walk away with the promise secured but Aziraphale had broken him with a single word. My. He trailed his long fingers down Aziraphale's chin, his thumb skirting those perfect lips, parted just slightly. Aziraphale was looking at him as he had imagined only minutes ago and it tore him apart. Crowley tipped Aziraphale's face down with exquisite tenderness. He pressed his lips onto the top of his angels head, face burried among the curls that really were as soft and cool as the clouds. Without a word he pulled back and turned away. He didn't look back. He didn't trust the strength of his resolve to see the angel's reaction.

As he made his way back through the crowd the points of his hair wilted and the sides grew back in until it hung in waves to his shoulder, just how the angel liked it. He heard the familiar lines of a familiar song play over the crowd "Lord I just can't get no relief, oh somebody ... Somebody .. Can anybody find me... Somebody to love." As he slipped his glasses back on, he spotted the pale imitation of himself across the crowd. For just a moment he felt his old angelic wrath in him powerfully enough to turn the child to a puddle of goo. He was intertwined with a stranger now though, Aziraphale and Crowley totally forgotten. Crowley felt the fire of hatred leave him. He had come so close tonight to having everything he had ever dreamed of, and several things he had never had the courage to imagine. Let the boy have his sin, eventually Crowley would have his angel. As he stepped out into the evening air, every collection bucket in the fundraiser overflowed and six ideally matched couples locked eyes across a room for the first time. Crowley's lips were burning and he was feeling generous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know which event they're at you get a gold star


	8. Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️Up to this point this story has been v fluffy but this is your smut warning⚠️
> 
> Sorry this took so long, turns out writing romantic smut is hard

On a picnic blanket beneath a willow in st James' Park, two girls were wrapped in each others arms. Aziraphale watched them for a moment with gentle eyes. The angel and the demon were taking a stroll after an exceptional dinner at the Ritz. The world was new and newly saved. The air smelled different than it had the last time they walked these paths. "I rather think it will all be worth it you know, what ever comes next." He said. The girls laughed as a flurry of petals blew past them, a pastel twister that framed a chaste kiss. Aziraphale sighed, feeling the love eminating from them. Crowley bit back a smile, glad the angel appreciated his special effects. 

"Come on angel, you don't know what's happening tomorrow." The demon said, taking off along the bank of the pond again. He was still on a high from wearing the angel's face, but he itched to do something as reckless as spitting Hellfire at a posse of archangels. The ghost tingle of Aziraphale's palm in his own gave a familiar, 30 year itch. He longed to take it again as he had in a club in Camden so long ago. He thrust his hands into his pockets as he weaved his way towards The Mall. Aziraphale followed, and Crowley slowed his pace so they could walk in step. The sun was setting over the fountains and a delicate lilac hue was settling over the evening. They walked in companionable silence through the murmur of Picadilly and onto Soho. The demon watched his pure joy at being bustled past by families and couples, all this life that blithely persisted, all because of them.

Aziraphale hesitated on the doorstep of his book shop. "Was it ever really gone?" He asked, laying a palm against the door's terra cotta wood. The building hummed with love under his touch, welcoming him home. Crowley sighed, he could still hear the flames cracking the leather bindings. "Best not to ask, angel." He said empathetically. He put a hand on Aziraphale's elbow to reassure him and pushed the door open smoothly. Instead of ash, the smell of hundreds of ancient books wafted up to greet them as the bell above the door dinged. The demon watched his friend take a step into the shop, then another. "They're all here." He breathed "The clever boy, he saved every one of them." Aziraphale said in wonder. His eyebrows suddenly contracted and he was moving through the shop. He bypassed a stack of priceless classics that simply had not existed yesterday morning, moving swiftly to a trunk in the back room, unlocking it with a miraculous flourish. Crowley locked the bookshop door and drew the blinds before he followed. He found the angel kneeling, a thin scroll of parchment worn flat between his hands. "What's that?" The demon asked, wondering what treasure could distract the angel from his books. "You wanted them to look to the stars." Aziraphale remembered, holding the scrap up to Crowley, his eyes misty. He took it and smiled. A slip of parchment holding a list of works of 

Hipparchus. It still smelt of Hellfire. He had plucked it from the ruins of Alexandria just to make the angel smile. He had been so reckless back then when the world was new MN everything in him had hummed and sang so openly then. In this new works, he felt it again. "You kept it all this time?" He asked. "In one reality or another, yes. You told me to keep it safe..." The angel said, as though it were as solomn a command as from the Almighty. 

Crowley knelt beside the angel and gently laid the ancient parchment back in the create among the books he recognised from the church. This collection was a record of their time together on earth, every scrap Crowley had ever touched was here, every gift, every leaflet he had ever influenced the printing of. "Not one of my finest monents." He said looking at the very first Bible ever printed. "Well, how were you to know Guttenberg would use that press to make a Bible? I'm sure the manifest evils of literature which followed got you out of trouble." Aziraphale said. "I often amuse myself that really, there wouldn't have been any books at all of not for your intervention in that case ..." He said, blushing as though he had realesed a terribly personal secret.

"Don't be silly Angel, the printing press wasn’t my idea. I was on holiday in Korea and I saw one in action, happened to mention it to Gutenberg and hey presto, the West was back in the game." He said. A companionable silence fell as Crowley routed around in the box, carefully avoiding said bible.

“You looked ever so handsome in Japan." The angel said, eyes glued to the contents of the box. Crowley's heart twisted at the memory of Aziraphale leaving him that night, the shadow of him that Gabriel had seemed. How many times had he lost Aziraphale throughout the centuries? He had watched him storm away into the forests, he had let him go and he had sulked over it until the next time he earned an angelic smile. He looked across at those lips now, arranged in a sad smile as he remembered it too.

It started as a crackle in the next room and before he knew it, flames filled his mind. The book shop was burning and Aziraphale was gone for good, discorporsted, dead. He was drenched, spinning around as his eyes searched the stacks blindly. He could feel the heat blistering his vessel, smoke making his voice hoarse. A vinyl still span in a corner. "Aziraphale?" He gasped, lost in the memory. The angel's image s am before him, the very image of concern. Crowley saw a hand reaching for him and he acted.

Before he could think to stop himself, Crowley took Aziraphale's face in his hands and kissed him. A simple, lingering press of lips that unpicked the demon stitch by stitch, letting the angel's holy light burn through him. He felt ages of tension and his fear leave him. The angel's face was immobile against his own. The first whisper of regret echoed through him. He pulled back after a moment, his hands sliding down to Aziraphale's shoulders, which he squeezed gently as he realised what he had done. The angel was safe, the fire had never happened. Where his soul had lived veggie, there were enough ruins. They echoed as he fought to get himself under control. All the while the angel sat with the same look of concern as before. "I'm sorry, angel. I know I promised to wait, but you had to know how none of that matters now. That world is gone." He whispered. He looked at the angel's frozen expression and detested himself, the touch of hands in a nightclub was excusable, but now he had taken a liberty. His embarrassment had him wondering if Michael's holy water was still on the cards "I'll go." He said at last. If the angel saw the breakdown he could feel brewing he really would think him mad.

He rocked back to rise to his feet but an angelic force held him in place. For a moment he panicked that he had angered the angel. He watched several emotions flicker over his clever face as he was held in the miraculous grasp. When he was ready, Aziraphale simply plucked the glasses from his face and put them in the chest too. "With all the other relics of us we've collected." He said tenderly. He looked Crowley in the eye and smiled. "You're going to listen to me my dear, and you're going to believe it." He said, bringing a soft hand to Crowley's cheek. Crowley didn't even have the freedom to nod his agreement or shy from the gaze, it infiltrated him as much as the angel's power did. He was helpless and he adored it. He was seen. He was sure the angel would be able to feel his pulse rising but the gentle intent in his eyes held. "I never want you to go from my side again, Crowley. I clung to the slow path until it led me to the very edge of the world. But it was infinitely worse to watch you submerged in holy water through my own reflection. I adore this world, Crowley, with its little friendly restraunts and ducks and people. But I would throw it all away in a wingbeat to make my blindness up to you, to regain a single moment I ever spent not being on your side." The angel's gaze was more content and certain than Crowley had ever seen it. Whether by miracle or not, he felt every word healing the marks of his fall within him. He felt whole with Aziraphale's love. All he could do was succumb. The tears fell from him unrestrained. "Oh my dear." Aziraphale cooed, quite shocked at the effect his words had wrought upon the demon. A handkerchief was delicately summoned from the ether. "I must make you understand. I am yours, vessel and soul. For every moment of my existence from this moment onwards, Heaven means nothing to me, I choose you." He intoned.

The hold released him as Aziraphale went to dab at Crowley's cheeks. With demonic speed, Crowley batted away the arm and ducked beneath it, pressing himself feverishly against the angel. He exhaled, feeling the spark of it in his whole body and knowing it was exactly where he belonged. Aziraphale's hands were tilting up his chin, his lips brushing against his own of his own free will and the demon dissolved. At the sensation of the angel's toungue on his bottom lip, Crowley parted his lips for him in rapture. The angel's hands moved Crowley against him with tender expertise before coming to rest in the demon's short hair. The taste of the angel was beyond Crowley's linguistic capacity. It was simply Aziraphale. With the realisation, the demon returned the kiss with a soft whimper. He wound his arms around Aziraphale and began to explore. The angel pulled back, breathless, impressive for a being who did not technically need to breathe. He stared down at Crowley in wonder. "My dear." He whispered. Crowley's pupils dilated at the name, his blood igniting at the thought of belonging to his angel. He kissed him again, savagely, desperately trying to exude six thousand years in a single kiss. Again, Aziraphale pulled back and Crowley whimpered, the power of speech lost to him. Every time Aziraphale stopped kissing him, stopped touching him, he wanted to scream. He had tasted Heaven on his lips and every breath without them was Hell incarnate. It had been worth the wait. 

"Not here, not like this." Aziraphale whispered, eyes bright and utterly overwhelmed by the depth of feeling the demon was trying to show him. Crowley wasn't sure what he meant at first. In a blink they were sitting in the exact same position exactly two floors above on Aziraphale's bed. Aziraphale reached for him again but the demon finally hesitated. Aziraphale saw the fear take Crowley in its grip and close him down more effectively than a pair of sunglasses ever had. "My dear?" He said gently, hoping the endearment would have a similar effect on the demon as before. He saw his chest stutter as he pulled in a breath. Aziraphale laid the demon back on the bed and lay beside him, letting the length of his body press into his side as he wound an arm around him. "You silly thing." He cooed. "All that love you've been hiding from me for all this time. I finally try to give it back to you and I scare you away." He whispered, pressing his angelic lips to the demons chin, his jaw, his neck. Crowley let out a small sigh and Aziraphale felt him relax ever so slightly, feeling his serpentine eyes refocus on him. "I love you, Crowley. I'm not going to ask anything of you that you don't want to give." He said. 

Crowley turned in his arms to face him, hiding his face against the angel's shoulder. "S'not that I don't want you ... Of course I do." He murmured. In all his years on earth, Crowley had rarely blushed, he didn't allow it. For now though he was glad the angel couldn't see his face.

"Then what is the issue my dear?" He asked, running a greedy hand to the slow curve of the demon's back.

"I thought they had killed you Aziraphale, the bookshop was burning and you were gone. The smell of discorparation was everywhere. I thought you were dead." He moaned, seeing the ashes of the shop below him in his mind again. He pressed his face harder into the angel's shoulder, to reassure himself. "But my dear, we're both here, we left Heaven and Hell with their tails tucked between their legs. I'm very much alive." He said, carding his fingers through the demon's hair to prove it. 

"Whatever I do Aziraphale, I need to keep you safe. When you were gone, I wanted this whole world to burn. I would have torn it apart myself if Gabriel and Beelzebub had failed. If I let myself ... If I drag you down ... I couldn't live with it, angel." He said, glancing up to Aziraphale. His eyes were quiet, intent and so full of understanding that it made Crowley's eyes water again.

The angel kissed him again, lips feather light against his own. The air sang with the rightness of it. He was smiling when he pulled away. "You feel that, my dear? That is love in its purest, most innocent form. Of course there are ... Other feelings. So many other feelings." The angel sighed, his eyes flickering closed as a wave of want surrounded Crowley, stronger than any temptation he had ever induced. His mouth dried as a small, wicked smile curved Aziraphale's lips, eyes still closed as he indulged in some fantasy hidden from the demon. "But the point remains, I love you more than I have ever loved anything in creation. I was made for you... It's ineffable." He said, eyes opening to show the absolute conviction of his words. 

Crowley couldn't deny his logic. Aziraphale had lay with others, he knew that. He knew even that the angel had not loved them as he loved him. He was still an angel. The logic was sound but still he was uncertain. "Trust me love, please?” the angel asked, running a hand down pat the small of his back. The demon's breath hitched as he nuzzled his nose against the slope of his chin. The scent of him was overwhelming here. He let it relax him and he leaned heavily into the angel. For all his temptations, he didn't know what to do next. Temptations, after all, were just games to excite and deny mortals. He had cultivated his very appearance to be salacious, always promising and never giving. That was the joy of a temptation, the hopeless frustration it left behind. Crowley wasn't sure how to give himself to the angel, not in a way that was real.

Aziraphale must have sensed his insecurity. He pulled the demon closer, laying kisses along his long neck. The demon made a small noise, hooking a leg over aziraphale’s hip to anchor himself to the angel, his fingers tightening in the silk of his waistcoat. “I have thought about kissing this neck for centuries” the angel breathed.

“Is that all, angel?” Crowley managed a smirk, tipping his head back gracefully to grant the angel access. He felt his Adam’s apple bob visibly, belying his nervous swallow as the angel drew close again. The angel’s kisses were so gentle that Crowley doubted they were even there. Then a sharp pain blossomed from beneath those lips, instantly cooled by the swipe of a clever tongue. Crowley caught sight of the love bite standing out against his pale skin and his heart stopped. “Now they’ll all know better than to try and take you from me again, my dear.” The angel whispered huskily in the demons ear. If the shiver didn’t give him away, the sudden feeling of restriction in his tight jeans certainly did. The demon blushed openly, trying to shift his hips away from where they were pressed against the angel’s before he realised. Aziraphale tutted and pulled his hips back flush against his own. He felt his feelings very much reciprocated there. The demon sighed at the contact as a soft palm slid up his stomach, pulling and parting the material of his shirt miraculously. 

Crowley kissed the angel in blind askance, only knowing that he wanted more of him. It wasn't suave or clever, but it was real. The angel laughed into his lips, leaning back as Crowley deepened the kiss. The demon shrugged out of his shirt as he leaned over the angel, not breaking the kiss as his hands went to divest the angel of all his infernal layers. All he could think of was Aziraphale’a soft hands upon him, and the need to touch every inch of the angel in return.

The buttons frustrated his usually clever fingers to the point that Crowley simply willed the clothes out of existence, leaving a not entirely surprised, but entirely naked angel lounging beneath him. Aziraphale was soft, creamy, heavenly beneath Crowley's burning fingers. He was totally at home in his skin and it was enchanting. The demon peppered kisses over his chest, smiling at the light dusting of hair there. The angel hummed, his head tipping back languorously. The demon smirked, biting down sharply, sucking a dark bruise over the angels heart. He watched in awe as the angel’s face darkened, a hunger Crowley never expected taking root there. His moment of surprise was all the angel needed to tip them over. He slipped a leg between both of Crowley’s, his thigh pressing up into his hard length. Crowley keened at the unexpected roughness of the touch, his hips rolling up to the delicious pressure. “Oh you are beautiful,” the angel breathed in awe as Crowley rippled beneath him. With the gentle breath of a miracle, Crowley realised he was also fully naked. The warmth of Aziraphale against his skin was intoxicating. The demon flicked open golden eyes, stating up at Aziraphale breathlessly. “Please, angel?” He asked.

Aziraphale slipped a hand between the demon’s legs, hearing him gasp as the cold temperature of his slick fingers pressed against him. The angel only hesitated a moment before Crowley pushed his hips up against his hand hungrily. Aziraphale held his hips still with his free hand as he slipped a finger into him. Crowley’s back arched in a divinely serpentine way, a jet of air hissing from between clenched teeth. The angel ran a soothing hand over the demons stomach to soothe him as he curled his finger within him. “mm ‘ziraphale...” he moaned, aching for his touch. His hips bucked up again, desperately trying to pull the angel deeper. Aziraphale conceded, adding a second finger, pushing in until he could curl his fingers against the demons prostate. The angel lingered there far longer than strictly necessary, crowley was an occult being after all, he wouldn’t feel the pain as a mortal might have done. The noises the demon made were too interesting, too salacious for him to stop until his own need was truly unbearable. “‘Ziraphale I swear to fucking God, Satan, even fucking Zeus.” Crowley growled, already feeling the tight wind of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t have minded coming undone from the angel’s touch alone, he had been dreaming of that kind of game for an eternity, just as he had dreamed of tasting his sweet cock and fucking him until the morning. There would be time for those games later, infinite time. Now all he wanted was to be connected to his angel, wanted him to be a part of him more than anything.

The angel understood and pulled back his hand. Crowley whined at the loss, hating that it was his own fault. He swallowed as the angel sat back and reached out for the demon’s hips. He allowed himself to be pulled into the angel’s lap. “Now my dear, I won’t do anything that you don’t want me to-“ the angel’s promise was cut short by a wretched moan. The demon, unable to resist any more, had taken his length in hand and gently guided it to his entrance. He made a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact with Aziraphale as he slowly sank down onto it, letting him see the pleasure, the wholeness he felt as the angel filled him up. It felt vulnerable and new and so very full of love that Aziraphale had to stifle a sob. The demon stilled, cupping his face and kissing the angel as he adjusted. After a moment he began to move, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm with the assistance of aziraphale’s hands, gripping his hips with a crushing force. Crowley hissed as Aziraphale’s hips came up hard to meet his own, sending sparks igniting behind Crowley’s eyelids. When he opened his eyes he found he had left deep scratches over the angel’s shoulders. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. He was whispering such sweet, debauched things to the demon that he knew could not last much longer. 

He wanted to stay in this moment forever, bask in the love and praise and hunger of it for all eternity, but he knew it would be over in a wing beat. “Aziraphale...” he moaned, half warning, half plea. The angel moved a hand from his hip to wrap around the demon’s length. He stroked him in time with their thrusts, adding a whole new dimension to Crowley's suffering. Tears welled in the demons eyes so he screwed them shut. “Open our eyes, dear.” Aziraphale panted. The demon complied, willing to give the angel anything he asked for.

“Let go, my love.” He purred, thrusting up into him. The demon whimpered, tying to push his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel tangled a hand in Crowley’s hair, pulling his head back to look up at his face. With another thrust Crowley screamed out, his body flattening against the angel as closely as possible. A galaxy that outshone alpha centuri formed behind his eyelids as he came. He tightened around the angels cock and wings of midnight black unfurled behind Crowley, stretching out beyond the bed.

The demon, normally so carefully controlled, was undone. His terrible beauty, the ecstasy he felt was more than enough to make Aziraphale loose control, spilling deep within the demon with his name on his lips.

Crowley fell forward, draping himself over the angel as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm with the angel moving gently within him. He shifted just enough to ply his face with lazy kisses in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. After a moment he looked behind the angel, reaching out to stroke the white feathers hidden just out of phase with this reality. Aziraphale felt the shiver of Crowley searching and let the wings manifest behind him. The demon stroked the feathers reverently, not a speck of black to be seen. “My love?” Aziraphale asked. The demon just hummed. The angel shifted them so they were lying on the bed again, a soft tangle of feathers and limbs. Crowley focused on his face again, his delirious smile faltering as he analysed the angel’s expression. Aziraphale seemed uncomfortable for the first time. “What’s wrong, angel?” He asked, the terrible possibility of a fall crossing his mind again. He eyed the wounds he had inflicted on Aziraphale’s body. The demonic part up him purred it’s approval at the sight of the angel marked as his, but the fear that he had caused him too much pain welled up. Aziraphale was an angel who liked frilly shirts and delicate little cakes. Crowley should have expected he would want to have sex that was just as refined, he was blushing furiously as the angel finally spoke. “Was I worth the wait?” He asked, surprising the demon. Aziraphale’s cheeks were shading a delicate pink, as though it had cost him everything to ask the demon. “Oh angel.” The demon said, all of his worries forgotten. “You were worth every instant. I love you” he said, his utter contentment making him feel safe enough to admit it. The angel melted and pulled him down into another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Which era are you dying to see these two idiots in?


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